


In Another's Eyes

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [8]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Brief reference to dysphoria, First War With Mevolent, Hopeless POV, Nonbinary Character, Not a happy ending (but how could it be), Other, Snippets, Unrequited affection: Hopeless/Erskine, canonical character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27837745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: Hopeless and Larrikin take centuries to get to know each other. This is a glimpse at them slowly, slowly coming together.
Relationships: Larrikin & Hopeless, Larrikin/Hopeless
Series: Dead Men Fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Comments: 15
Kudos: 5
Collections: Skulduggery Pleasant Fic Exchange 2020





	In Another's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trainwhistlesatnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwhistlesatnight/gifts).



> Merry christmas! I wrote this in a somewhat different style to my usual works, but I hope it's at least a little like what you were wanting. Have a terrific holiday, and I hope all goes well Train!

Hopeless doesn’t think much of Larrikin on their first meeting. To be fair, the day had been long; full of meetings and marches and anxieties; with their fellow soldiers tense at every movement; with the realisation pervading every hour that this war is not going to end quickly. Hopeless holds themself back in most social situations, too overwhelmed by their powers to operate on the same level as the people around them. Usually, they stand beside or a little behind Erskine, and let him do the talking. When they first meet Larrikin, on that cooling July evening around the communal campfire, Erskine isn’t there. A fight is on the verge of occurring – it is more common than one would wish, but expected to an extent. Tense fighters from different classes and cultures, in each other’s company all the time? It is not always going to sail smoothly.

Hopeless watches. This is not their problem; the ramped-up tension, the terseness, the sensitivity to things that really shouldn’t bother grown people. They remain seated with their back to a log, cowl of their black Bespoke coat up. They are listening to the fears around them. A plume of smoke curls into their face with the turning wind and they cough and wave it away.

About ten metres away, two men are facing each other, standing. One towers over the other, intimidating enough that Hopeless would probably back down. The other is slimmer, shorter, arms folded. From one glance, Hopeless guesses that the taller man is from peasant family. The other could have a merchant background, perhaps, or lower aristocracy. A class clash then – oftentimes those sorcerers born from a privileged background expect those mortal structures to still apply within camp, expecting peasant-born sorcerers to do much of the menial labour. Hopeless is from an aristocratic, Faceless worshiping family; but after they escaped that environment they learnt how to look after themself. They unlearnt other things, too.

The words are not quite audible, but they’re getting louder. Hopeless is half anticipating the taller man to strike the shorter, but then one person pushes through the crowd of sorcerers who are eating and drinking and laughing and avoiding the two fighters. Hopeless doesn’t recognise the new arrival, but they don’t have much to do with many of the men here – or the women. He’s shorter than the other two, has red hair. Worst of all, he’s grinning, watching the two delightedly. Something about him makes Hopeless stand, concern rising, they step forward.

“Go on Anton,” says the man, to the taller. “You gunna stand for that sort of talk?”

The shorter one looks at the redhead, “Larrikin, what are you …?

“Rue insulted you,” Larrikin says. “He insulted you because he knows you’re a man of honour, that you have principles, and he thought that meant you’d roll over and let him say what he likes. But look at him; he’s puny. He barely has any powers – as far as we’ve seen, he could be _mortal_ …”

“Hey,” Rue splutters, stepping away. His arms uncurl and drop to his side, ready to fight now. Hopeless sees the tension in the lines of his shoulders.

Facing him, Larrikin is relaxed. There’s something wicked in his eyes, and he glances at Hopeless and smiles wider. But there’s a scary sincerity behind his words, as if he wants blood.

“Go on, Anton. You know he doesn’t stand a chance against you. You don’t even need to use the gist …”

The taller man turns and looks at Larrikin for a long moment, with dead, emotionless eyes. And then he turns and walks away, each step seeming to shake the ground. The two other men watch him leave.

“What was _that_ , Larrikin?” Rue says, sharp and shocked and hurt, hurt enough that Hopeless guesses the three know each other.

“You need to watch what you say, Saracen,” Larrikin says, humour suddenly absent.

“What did I _say_?” The man asks. “You were the one egging Shudder on.”

Larrikin shrugs. Something in his movements is too smooth, like he has no bones to constrain him, too flexible for a normal human.

“If he had punched you, you would have deserved it,” he replies, and walks away.

Hopeless walks up towards Rue. The man is flustered, and Hopeless can feel his concern twisting through the air. Perhaps that is why he speaks without thinking.

“Shudder’s been pissed at me all day, I was trying to find out what was wrong, and then Larrikin …” Rue sighs. “Goddammit. I’m so tired. … Who are you?”

“Hopeless,” they respond.

“Saracen Rue,” the man says, glancing around him. “You’re one of Deuce’s lot, aren’t you?”

“Not officially,” Hopeless says.

Rue smiles. He’s a pretty man. “Since when has anything been official with our lot?”

Hopeless frowns, then shrugs. “Then unofficially, I suppose I am.”

Hopeless knows that Erskine is approaching without turning to look. They’ve lived with him long enough that his fears and anxieties, with their own unique weight, are as natural in the air as insects or arrows. He isn’t particularly worried now, as far Hopeless can tell.

“What happened? I heard there was a fight,” he asks the two of them. Hopeless watches Saracen’s face tighten, and he swiftly turns his head away.

Saracen might be pretty, but Erskine is beautiful, and some people find that uncomfortable to be around.

“No fight,” Rue says. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Good.” Erskine sounds sceptical, but also authoritative. As the highest ranked of the three of them, he is most responsible for managing rowdiness and infighting. He’s good at it. But he doesn’t enjoy it. “Hopeless,” Erskine directs all his considerable attention to them. “Skulduggery wants you to help him and Ghastly.”

“What with?”

Erskine exhales noisily, “God knows.”

The embarrassing thing is, Erskine likely doesn’t. If anyone else was saying this, Hopeless would guess this was an excuse to get them to leave. With it being Erskine, who is so wonderful at lying, the most likely explanation is that Skulduggery either didn’t explain why he wanted Hopeless’ presence, or he did, but so terribly that Erskine misunderstood or forgot. In any case, the show is over. Rue looks tired, and suddenly Hopeless is too. So they leave him there, with a murmured goodbye, and follow Erskine out toward the outskirts of the camp, where their tents are unsteadily constructed.

They don’t think about Larrikin at all, for a while.

Volunteering for a suicide mission should not be done in a blasé fashion. This being said, Erskine and Ghastly are already joking as they walk up the rough sandy steps to the General’s office. Hopeless is behind them, and quiet, as usual. The other volunteers are here, but Hopeless keeps their eyes on their friends. If they pay attention to the discomfortingly verbose flirtation occurring between Skulduggery, Ghastly and Erskine, then they can keep their hands from shaking, their heart from increasing its rate.

Around them, down below, stretch the white painted facades of old Spanish buildings. The summer heat is dying with the coming evening, but the cobblestones are still much too warm to the touch. Cordoba is a little town, a pretty one, and Hopeless would be delighted to be here were it peacetime. But it is not, and so the place fades behind the weighted knowledge that the army must move soon, to another city or country or place, before Serpine or Mevolent or Vengeous catch them up.

Meritorious is not winning this war.

The office is a little too small for nine people, so Hopeless waits for the rest to enter and shuts the door behind them, leaning against it. Corrival is tilted back in his seat, behind his desk, waiting for the men to stop talking. Hopeless looks at them all, these people they have signed up to die with, and is surprised.

Ghastly, Erskine and Skulduggery are already old friends, so much so that their presence feels almost fated. They know Dexter Vex too, from the battlefield, from drunken card games in camp, and on one lonely early morning when he had stumbled up to them and confessed, haphazardly, that _I don’t know what I am doing here_. Hopeless likes Dexter Vex.

The other three, standing together in a certain stoic solidarity, are the cause of Hopeless’ surprise. It takes them a moment to place them, but then they remember, Anton Shudder, gist-user, Saracen Rue, and Larrikin, healer and professional shit-stirrer.

It takes them another moment to remember that night-time argument.

There do not seem to be any fractures between them now. Larrikin is chatting Shudder and Saracen’s ears off, lively and much too gleeful considering the purpose of this meeting. Saracen is responding easily, hands jammed into his pockets. Shudder seems to be steadfastly ignoring them.

Larrikin is pretty too, Hopeless realises. When he isn’t causing trouble his face opens up, and his smile makes his eyes shine. He’s the shortest of the eight volunteers, but that doesn’t stop him from having a presence. He’s the sort of person that you’d look twice at, someone fae.

Corrival starts to speak, and Hopeless looks at the General. There are lines under his eyes, and he keeps glancing at Erskine, worried perhaps. Corrival and Erskine have worked together for a long time, and have known each other longer even than Hopeless has known Erskine. It makes sense that Deuce would be worried for him more than the others – Hopeless respects the General, but their relationship has never extended beyond professionalism and sometimes casual banter. Erskine is his favourite. Erskine is Hopeless’ favourite too, but they hide that less than Corrival does.

For someone who has had to lie their entire life, and still does, their heart is on their sleeve an uncomfortable amount of the time. Not that Erskine indicates any awareness of Hopeless’ affection, but Hopeless has become accustomed that by now.

Hopeless glances at Larrikin again, but this time the man is looking at them. His green eyes are friendly, and he smiles. Hopeless looks away.

“… this is your last chance to step out,” Deuce says. “After this meeting starts, you won’t be able to leave. We cannot afford for this information to go beyond this room.”

Saracen makes to say something, but aborts when Larrikin jabs an elbow into his ribs. Hopeless frowns. The tenor of fear in this room is not as high as might be expected, but they are all old soldiers – or old enough for death to seem more inevitable than a threat.

“Nobody?” Deuce says, and waits. “Alright. Our intelligence just informed us that a monastery in Wales was raided by Mevolent’s men last night, and the Book of Names was amongst the things stolen. What we need you to do is retrieve the Book of Names from Serpine’s camp before they get a chance to use it, and return it to us, without anyone opening it themselves. Understood?”

The joking atmosphere has at last disappeared. The Book of Names is powerful enough that its possession by the enemy could be the end of this conflict.

“I think we need more information than that,” Skulduggery says calmly. He’s a skeleton. Perhaps he is the only one unafraid of this mission.

“Of course,” Deuce says wryly. “I was about to get to that. We need to work fast. Meritorious has agreed to launch an attack on Serpine’s camp to the East side. According to our sources, the spoils have been stored to the west, protected by guards and sigils. We need you eight to retrieve the Book of Names and anything else, while Serpine is distracted. If you cannot escape, you need to destroy the Book.” He sighs. “It’s unlikely that you will be able to escape.”

“How do we destroy it?” Dexter asks.

“It’s a book, Vex,” Larrikin says. “It’s not that hard.”

“Good question,” Deuce says over Larrikin’s snide remark. “The Book of Names can’t be destroyed by mortal means. But _extreme_ heat will do it – I’m talking about anything above 5000 degrees Celsius.”

Hopeless winces. So here is the rub. 

“Can elementals make fire that hot?” Dexter asks.

“No,” Erskine says curtly. “A little above 1000 is our limit. The only things we have that can produce something that hot are difficult to control, and difficult to direct.”

“Are you saying our backup plan is to incinerate ourselves and the book?” Larrikin sounds horrified.

“If Serpine or Mevolent have control of that book, then they have power over literally anyone. And the power they would get from learning their true names … it’s unthinkable.” Deuce sighs. “This is only if you are unable to retrieve the book and escape. I – I argued with Meritorious at first, but this is necessary.”

“Why don’t you just send someone in to destroy it, if that’s so clearly on the cards?” Saracen asks.

Deuce and Erskine exchange glances. Hopeless watches them. Did Deuce inform Erskine of all this beforehand? Or is Erskine just familiar with the workings of the higher-ups that he can already deduce the answer?

“… Oh,” Dexter says, a little disappointed. “Meritorious wants the book himself.”

Hopeless stills and stares at Deuce. On one hand, it seems obvious – why would a leader of a losing army discard a weapon with potential to turn the tide of the war? On the other hand, Hopeless may respect Meritorious greatly, but giving anyone unlimited power only spells future disaster. They eye Erskine, who is standing to their left; his face is blank.

“We’re at war, men,” Deuce says, and Hopeless really has more concerns than misclassification, surely, surely … “We do what we have to do. Understood?”

It isn’t an answer, but they all stand to attention anyway.

“Yessir,” Dexter says.

“I’ll let you all introduce yourselves. You’re departing in two hours. Take that time to say goodbye to anyone you need to.”

Hopeless still doesn’t know how they succeeded.

Well, they do. They can recall it exactly – each heart-racing action, the certainty they were about to be caught, the relief when they realised that they weren’t being pursued. Larrikin’s anxious, determined eyes.

Thinking back, now, as they do after each mission, they realise that Larrikin had been more worried than they had. Lying on the flat grassy ground under the arching willow on the edge of camp, Hopeless closes their eyes. A hand comes to their shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Erskine asks.

Hopeless’ eyes open. They hadn’t known he was nearby – a testament to their fatigue, that their magic isn’t even working properly. He’s kneeling beside them, looking down. His brown hair falls over his unnerving eyes, and Hopeless wonders … wants to stop wondering.

Erskine never seems to know how beautiful he is.

“Just thinking,” Hopeless says quietly.

Erskine nods. He had performed well in their first mission, the mission they had thought they would all die in. There’s still ash on his face from when he burnt down the bridge as they retreated.

“How’s your arm?”

“Almost all healed,” Hopeless says. “Larrikin is … I didn’t expect him to be so competent.”

They think of the man’s tightened face, the way he had surveyed their surroundings before dragging Hopeless to cover, healing their splintered arm. At the time Hopeless had been so caught up in hearing and changing the fears around them, that they had barely felt the pain.

If not for Larrikin, Hopeless has no doubt they would have died.

When they return to camp they smile at the healer, and he smiles back, a little manic, but kindly.

There’s a rapping on the door.

Hopeless looks up. They’re seated on a four-poster bed that they do not own. On their lap is a heavy garment, it’s green, silk, and looking at it makes Hopeless’ stomach roil. They don’t know if they can go through with this. Around them falls golden afternoon light from the window, and outside Hopeless can see the hay swaying in the fields of this tiny French village.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” says Larrikin, on the other side of the door.

“I’ll be quick,” Hopeless forces. “Sorry for making you wait, I’ll …”

“That’s not …” Larrikin sounds frustrated. “Can I come in?”

Something wary in Hopeless rears its head, but they agree anyway. The oak door opens slowly, and Larrikin looks in. He doesn’t seem to be laughing, which is unusual.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” Hopeless responds, quiet.

“You haven’t changed.”

“No.”

Larrikin sighs. “I offered to do this,” he says with a smile. “They ignored me. So rude.”

Hopeless is the only one of the Dead Men that can pass absolutely for a woman, due to being capable of changing their shape. They are also the only one with experience of doing such – and the only one with the associated baggage around that exact situation. They’ve fought not to be a woman for so long – they are _not_ a woman. Even the dress alone makes them remember a childhood and adolescence best left behind.

“That is appreciated.”

Larrikin eyes them. He’s been consistently friendly with Hopeless, but usually he makes a few jokes at their expense sometime within the conversation. Hopeless looks up at him, lets their grey eyes lock with his green ones. The man leans closer, and Hopeless almost thinks …

“Can you do this?”

Hopeless blinks and leans away. The words are blunt.

“Of course I can,” they snap. “Now leave so I can change.”

For a moment Larrikin’s face freezes, he almost appears dismayed, or surprised. But then he nods and hurries out of the room, putting a hand on Hopeless’ shoulder before he departs.

Missions are missions, in the end. One is over and then another begins. Somehow they survive each and every one, and keep surviving, like God has a personal interest in their success.

Until, suddenly, they stop surviving. Or, one of them does.

Hopeless is dimly away that they are wailing, but they have no capacity to stop. Someone is speaking, loud, unimportantly. This cannot be. This cannot.

“Hopeless!” It’s Larrikin. “Hopeless, come with me. Please. I need you to pull yourself together.”

The healer is crying silently. Behind them an energy ray fries a nearby tree. They’re in the open, in the middle of a battle that Hopeless is no longer engaging with.

Erskine is dead.

“Come on!” Larrikin yells, and then he hauls Hopeless, despite being smaller, until they’re behind their troops. Hopeless has stopped screaming, but their feet obey Larrikin’s command without their own prompting.

This cannot be possible. This cannot.

Not Erskine.

Hopeless will apologise, dry-faced, to Larrikin – for putting them both at risk in the middle of battle, for letting him do all the fighting, for barely moving or speaking or functioning. But in that moment they can barely breathe, though part of themself is thankful that they have someone they can trust to protect them, while they reel from the loss of someone they’ve known and loved for centuries.

Erskine comes back. Of course he does. It was foolish and weak for Hopeless to believe him dead at all. He has changed. Even the tenor of his thoughts is different – he’s paranoid, skittish, untrusting. He suffered at Serpine’s hands, and that changes a person.

He has a secret alliance with the wrong people.

Hopeless is old, now. Old enough to know what’s right and what they should do. Old enough to know the ramifications of treason, how proximity to a traitor can ruin one’s life, regardless of innocence.

But, instead of voicing their concerns about Erskine to Deuce – their commander – Hopeless takes the walk through the temporary camp to Larrikin’s tent – close to the healing tent, for convenience. They walk and they think and when they see Larrikin they embrace him without thought. He may be flippant and joking and sometimes much too naive for his own good, but he knows how to listen.

And for some reason, Larrikin is someone Hopeless can talk to. They don’t know when in their centuries together this happened, but it has, and they do not take it for granted. Larrikin gives them the feeling of being seen, and now that the first person who had ever seen Hopeless as who they are is planning treason, Hopeless needs Larrikin more than ever.

It’s not just crises that bring them together. It’s drunken conversations in recaptured taverns. It’s walks down Welsh coastline and through French forests cracking jokes. It’s Larrikin correcting people who take Hopeless as a woman. It’s Larrikin correcting people when they take Hopeless for a man.

It is Hopeless stopping Larrikin from draining his powers every battle. It’s Hopeless, sitting with Larrikin as he freaks out over this or that. It’s the two of them, seeing each other and where they’ve come from, and knowing that they each have each other’s back.

After knowing each other for centuries, a kiss is inevitable.

There is more than one kiss.

Larrikin dies, of course. He steps in front of Dexter, in Serpine’s path. This time there is no doubt, no mistake. Hopeless sees it all, and does nothing, and will wonder, later, if they could have stopped it. Two years afterwards, in Prussia, Erskine stabs Hopeless in the back – finally aware that Hopeless knows about his new allegiance. Larrikin is buried in Wales, and Hopeless in Germany. Dexter and Saracen will bring the two flowers.

The two truly dead Dead ‘Men’ are remembered after the war. But nobody really speaks of them, not even their closest comrades, excluding jocular little anecdotes. After all, of the two people who truly knew Hopeless, one is dead and the other killed them. And for Larrikin, well, Dexter tries to forget his final screams, and Anton withdraws to his Hotel with his boyfriend. Eventually they, too, die. Perhaps it is a pity to be forgotten. Or perchance it is just how life and death works. In any case, Larrikin would probably make a joke about it, if he could, and Hopeless would fail at not laughing at it, like they usually did when Larrikin jested inappropriately.

Or at least, that's what Anton likes to think. 


End file.
